


Only A Catalyst

by coffeelacedwords



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Animated Universe, Under the Red Hood
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7031755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeelacedwords/pseuds/coffeelacedwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's moments like this that Jason thinks there's merit to the whole 'you didn't come back right' thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only A Catalyst

It's moments like this - with his cheek stinging and blood fresh on his hands, with Batman spitting mad and crushing him deeper into the brownstone, and with his cock achingly hard - that Jason thinks there's merit to the whole ' _you didn't come back right'_ thing.

Never in all the weeks, the months, he spends wandering the planet half alive does he ever think he's anyone other than Jason Todd. He has the same face, only cut sharper with age that's grown into _him_ rather than the other way around. He's still himself inside and out, still unable to stand the scum that flocks to Gotham in waves.

It's just somewhere along the way the wiring for his love of fighting and his admiration for Bruce interconnected. He wonders what good old Ra's has loose thanks to his little Fountain of Youth.

"- _stupid_ and arrogant," Batman emphasizes with a rough shake, his hold on Jason's jacket unyielding. This speech sounds a lot more like Bruce than the Dark Knight and what does that say about the current state of his dick? Jason feels some twisted sense of glee at the thought. "Where's the line? What is too far?"

"I got the job done. Do you even know what they were planning to do with those-"

"Of course I did," Bruce grits his teeth, letting his suit do all the intimidating. Lucky for Jason, he outgrew that fear years ago. "But there are better methods, better ways than needlessly adding to the list of dead bodies-"

Jason laughs, his back scraping against stone, and shoots Bruce one of his more dazzling smiles. "Yeah, like what? Letting Gordon and every other crooked cop take care of it? Letting more innocent people die?"

Bruce glowers at that, deep-set lines framing the downward turn of his lips. Jason wonders if Bruce notices they're almost the same height now. Strong, gloved fingers tighten their hold on him and _fuck_ that doesn't help his very confusing arousal. It's been three months since their showdown, since he nearly killed Joker and saved the world from his empire of death. He's had three months to think about this standoff with Batman.

 _'Bruce_ ,' he corrects himself, wishing there was another barrier between them, uselessly scanning for his abandoned helmet. There's none of that cold aloofness of Batman in Bruce's face. This is the man who laughed when Jason practiced his bad guy one-liners. This is the man who yelled without raising his voice, scolding him for disobeying orders. This is the man who doesn't understand that sometimes people deserve to die, for the good of everyone.

"When are you going to stop making excuses? How many more friends have to die?" Jason hisses. Boot toes catch pavement as Bruce lifts him higher up against the unforgiving surface. He wraps gloved fingers around the grip forcing him off the ground and squeezes until he feels the creak of bone. Bruce doesn't react, doesn't move a breath, and Jason wants to shout at him, _'Why wasn't my death enough? Don't you see my face on everyone you let die?'_

The night is clear, the city awake beneath them. The tan of Bruce's jaw against the colorless city keeps drawing Jason's eye. His gaze slips down to that strong familiar curve of bone, zeroing in on the blush of his lips.

"When are you going to do what's right?"

"I am," Bruce says, his words so damn sure. "If you can't see that what you did was anything but wrong, I've truly lost you."

It stings. His words hurt worse than any punch and that feral side that Jason has a hard time controlling bares its teeth, wanting to hurt as he hurts. Instead, he buries the rage, tamps it down until all he feels is a sardonic sense of amusement.

He scoffs and leans forward until they're nice and close.

"Maybe we should take another trip down memory lane. Go see your good buddy, Joker, and he can beat me like a piñata all over again," he smirks, sharp as glass. "Of course, been there- done that. Think Dent has it in him? I'm sure dying is a lot easier the second time. Practice makes perfect, you taught me that, old man."

With a growl, Bruce hurls him back against the building and Jason sees stars, his skull cracking loudly against the brick. When his vision returns, he's alone and still painfully hard. The sirens drown out his laughter.

\---

In all honesty, he means to stay a boogeyman in the shadowy underbelly of Gotham. Shutting down drug cartels and slowly weeding out all the top dogs until he's in control of every shady deal in town feels like a second skin. He messes up when he lets his anger get the better of him and he not-so-accidentally maims that human-trafficking beast near to death. The mistake though is sticking around right as Gotham's saving grace sweeps in.

Everyone fucks up once in a while. Except when Jason fucks up, Bruce is there to put Jason in his place.

Jason contemplates leaving and finding his own Gotham riddled with madmen, dishing out his own sort of justice. He eventually talks himself out of it. He doesn't linger on why he decides to stay. He tries to focus on the outskirts, bouncing between Crime Alley and the docks but now that Bruce found him again, it seems every masked freak in the city searches him out.

"You're freakin' kidding me," Jason mutters, his breath visible from the cold.

Nightwing lands on the slick rooftop with an elegance that Jason begrudgingly admits he has a hard time matching. Of course, he'd never admit it out loud. He doesn't lower his sniper rifle, keeping his sights set on the sketchy dealing going down across the way. The flick of changing streetlights reflects bright and shimmering along the wet asphalt.

"Mind if I drop in?" Nightwing greets cheerfully. Jason wants to snatch his mask off and fling it over the ledge.

"That's the best you got? And here I thought you were supposed to be the funny one," Jason snaps, shifting to ease the ache in his knees. Stakeouts and patience were never his strong suit. He does a silent headcount, only recognizing a few thugs, and swears. They're all just small fry.

"I'll admit, not my best but no one's perfect." Nightwing hovers just behind his right shoulder and it's getting old real fast.

He lowers his gun and hopes the animosity is clear, even through his helmet. "Can I _help_ you? If this is some ill-informed 'birds of a feather' bullcrap."

Jason's only met Dick Grayson a handful of times while he was Robin. Each time, the ever charming ex-Boy Wonder was always kind to him, ruffling his hair with an easy, _'Hey, champ'_ and falling into an easy banter with Bruce. He scowls at the memory.

"More like can I help you," Nightwing admits, face serious. "I hate to cut the chitchat short but this whole tough guy, taking things too far act? Has to end here. If it doesn't," he waves his hand, a quick flutter of fingers, and sighs when Jason doesn't respond. He reconsiders his words and continues, "Look, I love teasing the boss man, who doesn't? The guy can learn to ease up a bit. But this love, hate thing you have going on isn't the answer."

There's a heavy silence between them before Nightwing adds, "Nearly killing bad guys might get his attention but it certainly won't fix-"

Without a thought, Jason punches Dick square in his stupid face. 

"You talk too much," Jason says, clenching his fist.

Dick rolls away from Jason, body twisting up gracefully into a fighting stance. "You've got a nasty temper there."

"Stay out of things that don't concern you," he barks over his shoulder as he leaps off the rooftop, disappearing deeper into the night and seething with an anger he'll never outrun nipping at his heels.

He ignores the call after him, "You'll end up in Arkham, Jay!"

\---

The hole in the wall he rents is six stories up and has all the essentials, a place to shower and a place to sleep. Not that he gets much sleep these days. Tracking through the intricate dealings of the mob families and keeping the gangs at bay has taken a serious toll on any rest or relaxation. This is the first day in weeks he's been able to sleep for two hours straight.

So when he wakes up to a knock at his door, Jason curses.

He's at the entryway in an instant, gun held with a casual ease that took longer to learn than he would have liked. One glace through the peephole and he bangs his head against the paint stripped door, a soft thud accompanying his exasperation.

He turns the knob with a bitter, "It's a goddamn family reunion."

Alfred always looks out of place outside of his tux, his soft looking sweater and pressed slacks comical against the peeling wallpaper and scuffed floor of the hallway. Where Bruce has gained bulk and deeper creases on his face, Alfred looks untouched from how Jason left him.

A small sound escapes the man in front of him as he steps into Jason's place and lowers the bag he's holding with a soft _thunk_. Jason squeezes the door shut behind him and for once doesn't know what to say. With shaking hands and a pale, drawn expression, Alfred pulls him into a hug. Jason stands stiffly, turning his face away. He can't remember the last time someone hugged him.

"Well isn't this a Kodak moment," he mutters.

Slowly, Alfred pulls back and watches him with a strange clarity. Warm hands hold his shoulders firm like it's the only thing keeping them up.

"I still can't believe it, even when Master Wayne matched your DNA, even when he told me," he trails off, seeking out Jason's gaze. With a sniff, Alfred clears his throat and continues, "Why, you've grown quite a bit since I've last laid eyes on you. I'm not even sure if you still enjoy these."

He reaches down to pull out a box, smelling sweet and familiar. Jason's lip curls in distaste.

"Look, I don't need to be checked up on, like some basket case-"

He cuts in, "Now listen here, Master To-"

Jason storms across the room and tosses the gun on his bed. "No, you listen. I'm tired of this intervention crap. It's dangerous to be here," he gestures around him and back to Alfred, trying to make a point. "And I certainly don't need any hand-outs from Wayne Manor, got it?"

The warmth on Alfred's face never wanes, the ghost of what Jason had before he died laid at his feet. Alfred's accent grows thicker as he says, "One day, Master Todd, you'll see how happy we are to have you back. No matter how much you think the opposite."

He places the box down, turns and leaves without a backward glance. The door clicks shut.

Jason spends twenty minutes pacing around the box, nervously spinning a blade in his hand. He remembers how Alfred would have cookies ready when he woke up from an especially late patrol or after a brutal training session. Bruce always teased him how he kept Alfred busy with his appetite. Images of something welcoming and safe flash through him, filled with happiness and love that feels as foreign as Alfred's hug.

Jason tips the lid up with the sharp edge of his knife and glares down at the familiar jelly filling. He promptly flushes them down the toilet.

\---

Sometimes Jason admits he doesn't always think things through. Like right now, as he's hanging upside from some scary looking vines Ivy left, Batman staring back up at him from below.

"Let me guess, they got away," Bruce says, flicking his wrist and cutting him loose.

He lands as gracefully as he can with his own dagger pierced through his thigh. How did he miss the biggest arms dealers in town hiring Poison Ivy to help things go smooth? Careless is how people end up dead. He makes quick work of the slackened vines circling his wrists, ripping them off with frustration.

"Nothing gets passed you, Detective." With a steadying breath, he pulls the blade out - mindful of Bruce watching - and tears the bottom of his pants to bandage the wound. It's messy but it will do. He stands up and tests it gingerly, concluding it's not as bad as it looks.

He reaches for his grappling hook, ready to get back to his bike and away from the pungent scent of Ivy's plants to go over how he missed something so obvious.

"Wait," Bruce stops him, gesturing to the blood seeping through his pants. "Let me take a look at that."

Jason hesitates. A small part of him wants to say yes - an echo of the part that's half Boy Wonder and half rabid animal that wants to tear Bruce apart. It's that itch under his skin that wants nothing but Bruce's undivided attention, that eats away at him. 

It should be odd how he separates them. He wonders if Bruce separates the two, Bruce and the Dark Knight, or if there are even really two to begin with. Jason figures there isn't much of one without the other.

For once he decides to play it safe. Lightening quick, he shoots up his line. "If I want to be cooed over, I'll phone Alfred. Tell him thanks for the cookies," he calls out as he grapples to the roof, barely feeling the pain past the hot rush in his veins. 

\---

And that's how his life goes for weeks - an endless cycle of barely sleeping, terrorizing criminals left and right, and dancing around Gotham's favorite crime fighting menace.

Disappointment is always the first thing he feels when he returns from an uneventful patrol, numb from the cold river air and brimming with too much adrenaline. He hops over the stony grid of the city, trying to run off the energy but it's futile.

On nights like this, he finds that dark hungry part of himself that crawled back from death staring back at him. It ends the same way each time, peeling layer after layer off in a trail from the window to his bed, revealing flesh and fear and desire. The first time he gave in to this itch, he punched his hand straight through a wall.

Jason loses track of how many times he finds himself here, in his own personally made hell. There's got to be something wrong with this, jerking himself off to completion with thoughts of his mentor, the man who raised him and taught him everything he knows. Even before his dance with death, it was never this twisted.

And his arousal isn't just fueled by memories of Bruce, gentle and stern, but also the sheer violence of him. Bruce's body is strong, the weight of his movement both fluid and fierce. He's filled out in muscle, grown stronger, and it's that dark threat of power that has Jason losing it.

He gasps at his own touch, wetting his palm before setting a ruthless pace, remembering how Bruce felt pinned against him. He rolls his hips up at just the right stroke, groaning recklessly.

"Fuck," he whispers to the dark room, the dawn threatening to creep in. He's so close, each time always so close before he even touches himself, twisting each pull of his hand around the head of his cock. His heated mind conjures up how solid Bruce felt, that warm, leathery smell mixed with gasoline of the city, how viciously his thick fingers bit into his skin.

Jason's eyes slam shut, flitting images of them moving together - fighting and fucking and falling - painted on the backs of his eyelids. With a gasp, he curls around his fist and all he sees as he comes is Bruce's face when Jason said, "Because he took me away from you."

He gulps in a breath, his face wet from sweat and tears. He wipes his hand across his sheets before burying his head in his arms, repeating softly into the empty room, "He took me away from you."

\---

The breaking point is when Jason underestimates not only the number of Joker's henchmen on the outside but their strength when on some freaky experimental super drug that has Ivy's name written all over it. That's how he finds himself held in an alley, car headlights beaming from each end, with clown after clown taking their turn punching the ever-loving snot out of him.

He lost his helmet somewhere along the way, his jaw sore and his lip split. He gives them a good fight, nearly escaping before taking another breath rattling hit to the gut. It's when one of them points a gun straight at Jason's heart that he realizes this wasn't his brightest idea.

With more confidence than he feels, he grins, “You fire that and a little sign that says, _'BANG'_ comes out, right?"

 _'What a way to go,_ ' he thinks, still struggling against the hold on his arms.

A stretched, red lipped grin is his only warning before the gun fires but the bullet goes straight up as it's knocked out of the creep's hand. The shadows reveal Batman as he works his way through the clowns, Jason finally kicking out of the supercharged hold, giving as good as he's getting.

They fall back, beaten bodies of garish colors scrambling for the two cars. Before they peel away, one tosses out a vial that lands right at his feet, with a cryptic shout, "From the boss, with love!"

A plume of smoke disperses, purple and toxic looking. He covers his mouth and holds his breath, a firm arm around his waist dragging him up as Batman grapples them to the roof of a high-rise.

"We gotta stop meeting like this," he drawls, coughing as he scrubs at his watering eyes.

"Hold still," Bruce demands, voice dark and too close.

A sharp sting to his arm has him jump, dangerous words on the tip of his tongue at being shoved around and told what to do. An unexpected rush of arousal shoots through him and he gasps, clenching his fist as pleasure coils tightly in his gut.

"What is it?" he asks, the air cool against his fevered skin. He sounds wrecked, his throat growing dry. He resists the urge to adjust his sudden erection.

Bruce is stoic as he thumbs a gadget on his arm that Jason can only assume is some kind of blood analysis device. "Not good," Bruce solemnly replies.

He wants to snap how damn unhelpful that is but his body is reacting wildly, his heart rate increasing, and sweat breaking out across his skin. Unsteady feet carry him to a cracked, grey slab of wall and he leans against it. He pants, his eyes locked shut and his hands aching to _touch_. He slides a heated palm down rough stone and feels no relief.

"Bruce," he croaks out, fire igniting simply at the name on his tongue. He wets his lips and focuses on breathing, on the chill of the night, on the rumble of a storm closing in. He feels on the edge of something he wants to fall into.

A hand lands on his forehead, pushing his hair back. A dark thought twists through him, how Bruce used to take his temperature like this. "I've seen this before. If this is Ivy's doing, we're already too late."

"Ain't that just peachy," he pants, stretching up into Bruce's hand like an animal starved for affection.

Bruce sucks in a shaky breath, drawing his hand back. There's a hitch in his voice as he observes, "It looks like you received the brunt of it."

Jason opens his eyes to find Bruce staring down at him, worry clear even behind his mask. A dopey grin splits across his face as he reaches out, laying a heavy hand on Bruce's chest. Swallowing thickly, something close to fear dawns on Bruce's face.

Hysterical laughter threatens to consume him as he realizes that this yearning for Bruce is only partially to blame on whatever Ivy cooked up. It's only a catalyst for what he wants to do to Bruce. God, he's burning alive.

Bruce's tone is grave as he bows his head, "I can fix this. Jason, we need to get you-"

Jason pulls him close until they are flush together. His whole body sings at the contact, arching against that solid heat. He's struggling to stay focused, failing to make sense of what's him and what's the drug, too turned on to care. He wants to sink his teeth into Bruce's neck, to fight and fuck until there's nothing left of them.

With numb fingers, he pulls Bruce down into a melting kiss. Lips press against lips, slotting his mouth against Bruce's stubborn and unmoving one. A moan grows between them and he tastes blood, his lip splitting open again. His body's begging for more, his heartbeat deafening in his ears, and Bruce is as frozen as one of the statues he perches on. Jason licks deep into his mouth, suckling Bruce's lower lip, and grinds forward.

 _'God, please,'_ he thinks feverishly. _'I've needed this. I've needed you.'_

An icy burst of air falls between them as Bruce pulls away, panting through his teeth, forcibly holding himself back. He's still blocking Jason in, steadied against stone with bloodstained lips. This man will be Jason's end with how ruined he looks, piece after piece crumbling apart. He's flawed and perfect.

The lack of contact makes him ache, makes him feel twisted and gnarled. He curses Bruce's infamous restraint. He's going to die all over again because of Bruce's stubbornness.

A moan slips past his lips as he fits his hands to Bruce's hips and it seems to get his attention. He digs his fingers in, tugging them forward until they're slotted together, matching erections snug against one another. Bruce grunts, flinches like it burns but Jason holds him there in the fire.

With a steady, mindless hunger, he starts rolling his hips and snaps his head back with a lewd _'fuck,'_ baring his throat. 

"Jason," Bruce pleads, his gloves scraping against stone.

Jason's insatiable need to come is the only thing he can hear. A hurt sound escapes him on a particularly rough thrust, fabric dry and not enough, even with the sticky precome forming on the tip of his cock.

"Robin!"

He slows his hips, unable to fully stop even at Bruce's scolding tone. It's the one word that should put a stop to this, that should freeze and sober him up, that should remind him of what he's lost. Instead something close to a whimper falls from his lips, holding tighter for fear of the pressure leaving.

"Please don't stop," he begs, shame washing through him along with a sharp spike of heat. It's that same feeling he had every time he had to admit he was wrong, every time he had to apologize, make himself vulnerable and it's all for Bruce. His throat feels swollen and scratchy as he stumbles out, "F-fuck. Please, Bruce. I'm...I want. I _want_."

He sounds drunk and desperate, his body heavy with heat and the toxin and his desire for Bruce. His hands scramble at Bruce's hips, up to cup the back of his head, hands sliding against the smooth surface. He tugs and pulls, just like he has his whole life, always pushing, until Bruce's lips are a breath away from his.

Bruce's chest is heaving with restraint, his mouth slack and parted, and Jason just wants to take, to stop the burning, to quiet the insanity building within him. 

"Does it hurt?" Bruce whispers, still close to something like himself, the effects of the drug not as strong in him. Hesitantly, he cups Jason's cheek and it's like a taste of sun through parted clouds.

He wants to nod, to scream, _'Of course it hurts.'_ His body is one giant nerve ending of want and arousal and heat. And it hurts so much more because he wants this, has wanted this. Before some half-baked plant toxin, he's yearned for this. He clawed out of that mystical pit of water, still mentally locked in a room with a madman and a crowbar just _waiting,_ and felt empty until now. He just wants this.

_'He took me away from you.'_

After the vengeance, after the desire to hurt until he doesn't hurt anymore, he wanted this.

"Jason," Bruce tries again, thumb catching just the corner of his mouth.

"Please," he whispers, body shaking, needing Bruce to come to him. He needs Bruce to fix this the way he always did before.

Bruce swoops down, locking their mouths together, kissing him thoroughly. His body hums at the touch, rolling forward as a hand slides down his body, cupping him through his pants. Bruce makes quick work of his belt, slipping it off and sliding his pants down just enough, his erection springing free.

Jason groans, chasing Bruce's lips even as he pulls away to rip his glove off with his teeth. The warm hand on his cock boils his brain, the touch scalding and perfect. The dry slide has him making noises he'd be ashamed of if he were in the right state of mind to care.

With a gasp, he pulls Bruce's hand up and licks. Bruce's hips stutter forward as he glides his tongue along the hot skin, tasting salt and Bruce, getting it nice and wet until it finds it's way back to his cock.

His mind is so fevered and overloaded at the brutal pace Bruce sets, dragging his very life from him and simultaneously giving it back. He's chanting something, begging for more, Bruce's lips mouthing at his jaw, their chests flush together. His body fights the pleasure, wants to pull away because it's too much. Except he's never known what's good for him so he pushes into it and comes with Bruce's name on his lips like he does every night.

Bruce works his hand, dragging every last drop out of him, and he can feel the haziness fading, that fire and hunger falling back to what it was before. Jason breathes, calms his heart, and that's when he notices Bruce shaking.

His cock presses obviously against Jason's thigh, his mouth still firmly attached to Jason's skin, and even though he didn't get hit directly, his body's still humming under the toxin. A rumble sounds off, far back in the sky, and a light mist of rain starts up.

He cups Bruce through his suit, flesh solid and radiating heat.

"You don’t," Bruce starts, body betraying his words and curling over Jason, nudging against his palm. "I'll survive."

"You're pretty bad at lying, old man," he smirks, enjoying the broken sound as he squeezes Bruce's erection. He rolls into the touch, body blocking out the mist around them. Jason pulls his knife out and slices off his belt for nostalgias sake, before pulling his erection free.

He wets his own palm, grasping Bruce's cock and setting a pace that's slower than he normally would. Bruce is falling apart in front of him, his breath ragged, his hands struggling to find purchase on anything until one settles in Jason's hair, the other sharp on his hip. He wants this to last as long as possible. There's a part of him that fears deep down this will be the last time. 

As Bruce falls apart in front of him, Jason sees that they're the same. They're both that same breed of animal that needs a little more violence, that has a little more anger. It's something he never saw as a kid.

"That's it," he mumbles, encouraging even as he feels his own arousal stir again, watching the hot slide of Bruce's flushed cock in his fist. He thumbs the tip, circling around the underside. "Yeah, fuck, Bruce. Who knew this is what you were hiding."

A strong hand grasps his jaw, pulling him into a rough kiss, tongue savage and plundering. He pushes into it, feeling a little more whole with each touch, each kiss. He twists his hand with a wet sound and Bruce's thrusts stutter into his fist, urging him faster. The rain grows heavier, his hair flat as fat raindrops catch on his cheek.

"Damnit," Bruce growls, baring his teeth. He buries his face against Jason's neck, holding him as close as possible without stilling Jason's hand. He's almost there, he can feel it, his body rocking just as desperately as Jason felt. "Jason," Bruce gasps like a prayer, dark and not meant to be heard. His cock pulses and then he's coming, come landing on Jason's stomach as the thick tip catches on his shirt.

It's such a surreal moment, watching the man who taught him restraint fall apart right in front of him. Jason feels the moment Bruce comes back, his body stiff, aware of his surroundings, aware of what they did. Jason tucks him away and fits his hands in his cape like he used to do when he couldn't get his attention, suddenly feeling petulant and small. 

"Bruce," he whispers, meaning so many things.

Instead of pulling away, Bruce cups the back of his head, arm firm around his waist, and crushes them together. Rainclouds open and pour down around them, the pitter-patter of water on rooftops the only motion as they stay locked in this moment. He silently laughs and wonders why they always have moments in the rain. There's no Joker, no could-have-been's, and no one but them. He wants to stay here forever.

"Jason," Bruce murmurs again, like it's the first time or like it's the last time, like an apology. Jason shivers from the wet chill of rain, body bruised and aching, but he hasn't felt this sense of relief in a long time. He breathes out a shaky sigh, finally catching his breath, and he feels almost like himself again.


End file.
